The clocks are lying.
They haven’t been showing two o’clock
since we broke up.
When we were walking on the beach,
just before the rain came pouring down,
you asked me whether I loved you or not.
Words queued up in my throat,
but I couldn’t let them out.
You misjudged my silence,
mistaking it for absence,
instead of my inability to express how I felt adequately.
I drowned deeper in my quiet,
knowing I could never say my feelings out loud.
Emotions are paintings to me—
not to be described, but displayed.
Words are pictures,
not for saying, but for showing.
You have come from a land
where love is echoed out loud.
I have come from an ocean
where love is quiet, deep inside.
Our expressions are different,
although our hearts are the same.
Our directions are alike,
though our speeds are to blame.
Your eyes allied with the pouring rain,
trying to ease your cloudy pain.
That was the moment
the clocks started to lie.
Words queued up,
but I couldn’t let them out.
So the unspoken words
spoke us out.
Rain stopped.
Oceans withdrew.
Land dried.
Hills broke up.
Clocks skipped two o’clock.
Time fell apart.